


My Good Name for My Kingdom

by ivyspinners



Category: The Song of the Lioness - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Gen, Moral Lessons, Stylistic Challenge, The Tamora Pierce Experiment Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-27
Updated: 2010-11-27
Packaged: 2018-11-21 22:45:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11367192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyspinners/pseuds/ivyspinners
Summary: In a roundabout way, Jonathan learns a great deal about being a good king while rubbing shoulders with the worst of society.





	My Good Name for My Kingdom

**Author's Note:**

> Challenge: _write a story where every consecutive sentence begins with the next letter of the alphabet_.

Jonathan of Conté, heir to the Tortall throne, squire to the King's Champion and all around honorable noble had acquired a taste for cheating at dice with the court of Corus's Rogue.

King Roald, like any other royal parent with an excellent spymaster, was still somehow ignorant of ALL of his teenage son's habits, particularly Jon's favorite: slipping on a new identity in order to win money off his future subjects. Less than a handful of even Jonathan's closest friends harbored the secret. Meaning that at least ten people in total were aware, and a further ten suspicious.

No one worried about this odd behavior, passing it off as a harmless quirk that would come to nothing; they were wrong. One of Jonathan of Conté's lessons in ruling would interrupt a game of dice in the Court of the Rogue - a lesson from the fire-lit depths of a criminals' tavern that would shine as wisdom in King Jonathan's eyes in the years to come.

\- : -

People in Corus have long observed that visitors have the inexplicable ability, some say tendency, of ending up in the least reputable tavern possible, particularly if entry necessitates sneaking in through a back alleyway. Questionably sober young men comprised one such group that stumbled across the Dancing Dove, on a day of no wider significance; inexperience dulled their senses and over a period of about half an hour, those sufficiently nimble-fingered took the opportunity to divest the youths of their valuables. Repeating an old argument while rolling dice - "The Emperor of Carthak is a downright bastard," Jon muttered; "And his empire is at its peak," Gary retorted - Jon paid no attention to the newcomers until one discovered the loss and started an outcry.

Shame at being unprepared for thievery should have bowed them out amidst gales of laughter; not even the leader - tall, arrogant, with what Gareth the Younger labeled the face and manners of a particularly unfortunate weasel - dared complain without proof. The entire spectacle would have ceased there if one sharp-eyed member, memorable for the scarlet palm-print across his left cheek that distracted from his good looks, hadn't caught sight of his gilt brooch glimmering in the basket of one of the girls and with a yell of fury started after her.

"Ungrateful wench!" he snapped; a startled cry escaping the girl - the flower-seller Xantha with whom Jon with had shared a brief dalliance - when his fingers captured her wrist with what Jonathan could see was bruising force; every word rang forcefully as the lighthearted chatter diminished. "Very smart, charm the distracted visitor, accuse him of being too friendly and slap him, and steal his sweetheart's brooch from him with no one the wiser. Well, not this time!"

Xantha attempted without success to free herself, clawing at his hand and then at his arm, unwilling to return her treasure with the coquette smile and graceful defeat that Rispah coached her girls to give and accept - she'd always had a magpie-eye for pretty things she couldn't afford. "You pox-ridden liar, I've 'ad that brooch for years." Zooming in on Jon, she gasped out, "Jon gave it to me, didn't you, when we was playing?"

All pairs of eyes in the half-filled the tavern turned on him - Alan's fascinated, Gary and Raoul holding back laughter, pockets of thieves and flower-girls crowded around small tables looking interested at this newest addition to the drama.

Bullies disgusted Jon; Handprint snarling, animalistic, into Xantha's face labeled him one. Chivalry dictated he ought to spit and roast that hand for its violence; Weasel's mutters to let go had a strong emotional corollary among the Dancing Dove's patrons, who were both willing and happy to tell Handprint this in a far more expressive manner.

"Does she speak the truth?" demanded Handprint, swiveling around to lock darkly furious eyes with Jon; beside him, the flower-seller lurched at the sudden change in direction, dragging the crowd into tense, expectant silence.

"Exactly as it is," Jon claimed immediately, rising slowly to his feet and staring down Handprint across the empty expanse at the center of the tavern, years of practice keeping his fists unclenched and voice even.

"For the love of Mithros," hissed Weasel, the clamp of his hands on his friends' shoulders locking the other group members in place, his movement making his sleeves, threadbare cloth stitched with an exotic symbol, draw up his forearm; "do not draw trouble in the court of Corus's Rogue."

Glaring at Weasel, Handprint pointedly clasped Xantha's wrist harder - and gasped in pain as she spun suddenly, nails scouring welts into flesh, heel of her boots digging into his shin; she tore away, backing up to one of the tables.

His chest heaving and breath ragged, Handprint stared at his victim, momentarily flummoxed - until his eyes narrowed; from where he stood, Jonathan could see the flower-seller's friends tensing, hands drifting towards concealed weapons.

"It occurs to me that this will turn ugly," Raoul said quietly, leaning forwards to ensure Jon heard, "and not even these gits deserve what's going to happen if they fight."

Jonathan gazed at Weasel, who had removed his hands from his friends in order to stand next to Handprint, and was now speaking urgently even as Handprint attempted to shake him off.

Keeping his attention on the group, Jon ran an eye over the Dancing Dove's regulars, their voices raised as they discussed how Weasel, who had cleared off the children with a fierce glower, who had punished a mistake by one of the servers with cutting words, had been forced to swallow retribution.

Last, he regarded Xantha, who cupped the brooch between her fingers - the stolen brooch, a theft to which he had been complicit - eyes shining with the fierce joy of holding something beautiful and forbidden when the rest of the world was dark.

Making a disgusted sound, Handprint turned his back on Weasel and marched over to where George perched - to where George was frowning at the group while the two nondescripts brushed at the place Weasel had been holding them still, their fluttering sleeves making the exotic symbol on them very visible.

"No Rogue in the other cities would - " Handprint barely started, before Weasel dragged him away.

Out the front door of the tavern, and they were gone.

"Please," said Gary, "tell me you found that as disappointingly anticlimactic as I did."

Quelling the urge to say yes, Jon gazed quizzically at his friends. "Right, do you think they're looking for us yet?"

"Sadly, yes," Alan jested in typical page fashion, rising to join Jon, "because we've used all the free time that we don't have."

They exited through the front doors, blending expertly with Corus's populace - the streets just crowded enough that carts shielded them from view when they passed the four visitors who had caused so much fuss as they spoke outside an alleyway. Unless Jon missed his guess, they were arguing - Handprint berating the group leader over his restraint - and he used the considerable talents he had picked up sneaking into taverns through to move closer and listen.

"Very nice welcome back we'll get from the Rogue," he heard Handprint snap, over the din of horses and clatter of wheels compressing dirt; it took him a moment to understand the reference was not to George Cooper. "We'll look like fools now, getting nicked instead of taking and STILL pretending to be useless, and don't think they won't laugh over how the Rogue's new eyes were the laughingstock of Corus."

X's adorned the back of Handprint's hands, Jon was sufficiently close to observe with frank disbelief, when the Provost-nabbed thief waved them; was this why George hadn't interfered and left them earless?

"Yes," Weasel said flatly, leading the others as all four disappeared into the alleyway; his voice floated out as he continued, "I'll be have upset both sides by walking the middle path between new tactics and old."

Zero people in the dirt alleyway now, but when Jon concentrated on listening, the faint sapphire blue of his Gift shimmering in the air around him, he could still detect quiet voices.

"And yet, do you think the respectability of my name matters when both sides will accept the change? Bastard as I might be, my Rogue's court will still be better."

Carefully, Prince Jonathan let the voices fade away, thought about Carthak's emperor, and remembered the events of the day.

\- : -

Decades later, a young Keladry of Mindelan would wonder if you had to be a good man to be a good leader; and she would wonder it about Jon when he made the choice to put her on probation.

\- : -

fin


End file.
